


Like You Used To

by Hardwood_Studios



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Jealousy, M/M, Original Character(s), Possessive Behavior, Scheming, Sherlock-centric
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-19
Updated: 2013-09-19
Packaged: 2017-12-27 02:15:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/973091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hardwood_Studios/pseuds/Hardwood_Studios
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Watson thought himself irreplaceable. Sherlock proves him wrong, yet again, by acquiring a handsome new flatmate. Much jealousy and scheming ensue, with Holmes in the middle. [John/Sherlock]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like You Used To

**Author's Note:**

> A/n: New obsession! Sherlock Holmes, yo! And when I obsess, I obsess hardcore. I've watched the new movies (with our dear Mr. Downey and Mr. Law, who I kind of want to shrink down to mouse-ish size and keep stowed away in my pockets at all time for my own personal amusement) about a hundred and one times, and I have this urge to burn all my clothes and then replace them with Victorian style men's clothing from the 1800's (with a colorful, modern twist). I already have checkered rainbow suspenders and a sweet top hat. 
> 
> Hopefully this is a fairly fresh idea. I've only read one another story with the same type of plot, but...mine is going to be better...I surprisingly don't hate Marry at all (crazy, right? I'm pretty much the Conductor of the Slash Express, and it's like my job to hate on every female love interest). She's sweet and intelligent, and Holmes really did deserve that wine in the face. It's not her fault that Watson was having a midlife crisis and couldn't see that his place was alongside our favorite maddening Detective. So there isn't going to be much - if any - Mary bashing in this; I'm going to try to paint her as the sorrowful yet understanding wife (eventually ex).
> 
> If it wasn't already obvious, there's going to be an OC in this. I know some people don't much care for OC's, I certainly don't, but give him a chance. He's very sexy, and damnit, that should be reason enough. This is most likely going to be a chapter story, but I can't promise regular updates. My interests and obsessions change almost constantly. 
> 
> The name of this story is inspired by the song 'Feral Love' by Wakey! Wakey! and a youtube video called 'Holmes/Watson: are you happy?' by VilyaXxXoilwyna (...I think...). Both the song and video were beautiful and inspiring, and I would definitely recommend you watch/listen to them.

The clang of silverware against fine porcelain dishes was deafening. They had nothing to say. John felt the urge to clear his throat just so the quiet would be broken, but feared tipping the precarious balance they’ve settled into. One wrong word, one wrong sound, might set off the clock. 

He glanced at his wife through shuttered lashes. She sat at the opposite end of the dining table [the farthest seat from his own] and took delicate, measured bites of her roasted duck. Her eyes were fixed on the pristine linen of her favorite tablecloth. She was perfectly content to ignore his existence. He was content to do the same. Forks scrape against plates. His appetite was slipping with every bite he took [a churning, nauseas pit left in its place]. 

Clink. He sits his fork down. Mary looks up sharply. “You’ve barely touched your food.” A thinly veiled command. 

He returns her gaze evenly. “I seem to have lost my appetite.” Her face goes cold and hard like cobblestone under the snow. 

“You haven’t eaten since breakfast, John.” Her patience is growing brittle, he can see it in the tense set of her mouth. 

“It was a rather large breakfast, Mary.” He pushes anyway. 

Her fingers tighten around her tableware, the pink skin of her knuckles pulled taut and translucent. “Roast duck and artichoke is your favorite. That is why I spent all evening preparing it.” 

“I apologize, dear.” He says with little sincerity.

“An apology will do nothing to keep your food from going to waste.” 

He wants to feel the sloshing of guilt behind his breastbone, but the guilt doesn't come, just as it never comes. He pushes away from the table, and the rasping of wooden legs over wooden flooring echoes like boulders down a mountain side.

“Where are you going?” 

"The study." 

She doesn’t respond, and it’s something of a relief.

Three months. That is how long it took for their marriage to completely disintegrate. What he mistook for love was just a passionate desperation for normalcy. The quiet humming of a wife, the excited pittering of small feet, the rumbling, wispy breaths of a sleeping Gladstone, chops sizzling on the stovetop, flames sputtering wantonly in the hearth. Normal. 

Normal was what he wanted. Mary was what he wanted. To live happily and quietly at Cavendish Place, not having to worry about stray bullets or haphazard experiments. Not having to fear for the life of his dog on a daily basis, or wondering about the whereabouts of his favorite shirt. Not having to consider the possibility of his premature death upon waking each morning. This was what he wanted. Except it wasn’t. 

He wasn’t happy, he was downright miserable. Cavendish Place was one of clipped and calloused words, averted eyes and avoidance. He relished a chance to escape, and dreaded the inevitable return. It was a maddening and utterly wretched way to live, and he longed for something he dare not name [the pungent aroma of tobacco and old books, dust motes and a smoky haze, withered hands pouring a favorite chamomile brew into cracked cups].

Home is eccentricity and danger, absolute perception and a tucked-away-innocence. A bow being scraped across delicate strings before the sun can arise, and chemical explosions shaking the floor beneath his feet. It terrifies and nauseates and racks him with guilt, because now he knows. 

Sitting alone in his study, he drops his head into the too hot palms of his hands. He knows what he wants, and it resides at 221B Baker Street. 

x

It takes him two days to scrounge up the courage. Two, miserable days.

He stands on the familiar stoop of 221B, and his chest tightens [glass lantern dangling between arching iron, stone steps, chipped door]. And then panic sets in. He hasn’t seen hide nor hair of his dearest friend in two months. It was like thirsting to death. He grew more and more thirsty with each passing day, just a little drop would satisfy, but his own cowardice kept him tethered down. He chose to leave this life behind, to leave Holmes behind. He didn’t deserve to come simpering back to Baker Street, not when Sherlock had pleaded with him to stay. 

After their last and seemingly final parting, Holmes made no attempt to get in touch [not a single visit or rumpled letter]. It was a justified silence, but silence nonetheless. What would he say? After a stony farewell and two months of dead air, a simple ‘hello, old boy’ wouldn’t do. Perhaps he should begin with an apology for his unnecessary absence. Perhaps he would fall down to his knees, groveling at Holmes’ feet, and beg for his old room. Watson breathed through clenched teeth. Perhaps this was a mistake, perhaps he wasn’t strong enough to keep himself together.

He spares the door a wary look. “Just ring the bell.” He rings the bell. A shrill chime is heard through cement walls, and Watson anxiously awaits the appearance of Mrs. Hudson. Not once has Holmes bothered to answer his own door, and for the first time, he is grateful. The wait is brief, and the door snaps open with a protesting croak. It isn’t Mrs. Hudson that greets him, but a man. 

He’s tall enough that his head brushes the top of the door frame, and his torso spans the width of two men. His hair is thick and swooping, his eyes sooty and green. He’s classically handsome, in a word or two. Watson mouths awkwardly for a bit. 

“Who are you?” He sounds a little offended, even to his own ears.

He laughs and says, “I could ask you the same. You are the stranger standing on my stoop, after all.” 

“Your - ? You mean to say you live here?” His voice pitches higher in his disbelief. 

“That is what I mean to say. Were you expecting another?” And damnit, if the ponce doesn’t sound amused.   
Watson frowns. “I -...No, there must be some mistake. Perhaps I have the wrong flat.” He glanced up at the lantern. 221B cackles down at him from its glass pane.

“Perhaps. This would be 221B, my good man.” 

Watson bristled. “Yes, I can see that for myself. I’ve made no mistake, this is the right address.”

“And who is it you expect to find here?” He crosses big arms over the far reaching planes of his chest, and pops a hip against the door frame. Watson grit his teeth, hearing the light tease in those words. “I’m looking for Sherlock Holmes.” 

Realization suddenly dawns on him, and he tips forward on the balls of his feet. “So you must be - ”

“Doctor Watson! Finally come by for a visit, have you?” Mrs. Hudson appears in the doorway, her smile brightening the dim foyer. Her face is smoothed of its worry lines, and her shoulders hang loose. Watson is surprised to see her so at ease, when the antics of her tenant normally keep her in a panicked tizzy. 

“Mrs. Hudson! You look wonderful.” 

She gives the stranger a pointed look, and he steps aside with palms raised in mock surrender. A strangely intimate gesture, Watson can’t help but notice. He moves into the foyer with little prompting, pulling the door closed behind him. Mrs. Hudson splays her arms wide for an embrace, which he happily drops into. “It’s lovely to see you, dear. I’ll put on a pot of tea, your favorite.” Her eyes crinkle into crescents, and Watson feels that damnable ache.

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. I’ve been away for too long.” 

“Her chamomile is delightful, isn’t it?” The man is waggling thick brows at Mrs. Hudson, playful and familiar. She flaps a dismissive hand, but her cheeks fill with pink. 

“Oh, hush. You flatter this old woman too much.” She giggles [giggles!], disappearing into the kitchen with her long skirt swishing around her ankles.

“Too much? Never!” He calls after her, laughing. Watson stares searchingly for a short moment, before addressing the obvious elephant in the room. “I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced.”

“Ah, how rude of me. Wiley Demone’, but Wiley is just fine.” He extends a massive hand. Watson shakes it, a tingle of reluctance prickling through his fingertips. “John Watson, it’s a pleasure.” He forces out, tasting the blatant lie as it squeezes through his teeth. 

“The pleasure is all mine. Sherlock has told me much of you and your adventures together.” His mouth softens around Holmes’ name, and his eyes mist over with something deep and balmy. 

It’s a look Watson is intimately familiar with. “So Holmes does still reside here.” 

“Of course. This is his home, I’m merely a temporary guest. Though I am hoping to make this into something more permanent. I’ve grown a bit fond of Sherlock, my life has never been quite so interesting.” His grin is all teeth. Watson seethes.

“Doesn’t he drive you mad? A man can only handle so much of Sherlock Holmes, before he either loses his patience or his sanity.”

“Maybe you, Doctor, but I handle him just fine.” 

Watson feels regret sitting in his stomach like a cold boulder, enormous and jagged at the edges. His mistakes have come back to haunt him. His replacement is staring him in the face, for God’s sake. He wants to say something, anything, but Mrs. Hudson calls out from the kitchen. “Doctor Watson, would you mind helping me with these biscuits?”

“Of course.” He calls back weakly. 

“I’ll inform Sherlock of your arrival, if he isn’t already aware.” Wiley smiles again, and ascends the staircase one heavy clop at a time. Watson follows him with his eyes, animosity gathering in his chest like black clouds. He turns and marches into the kitchen with squared shoulders, offering Mrs. Hudson a respectful nod. He won’t be bested.

She gestured to the flattened dough spread across the cutting board. “Would you mind pressing out a few biscuits?” 

“I would never mind, Mrs. Hudson.” Mrs. Hudson was a woman worth the trouble, what little trouble there was. He takes a circular cutter in hand, and begins to press. “I see it didn’t take long to give up my room.” He says this lightly, a joke, but his heart aches fiercely. 

“He needed a place to stay, and I like to think I’m a fairly hospitable woman. Fairly hospitable or not, that man could charm a starving man into giving up his last loaf.” Charming. Watson cringed.

“He seems like a well enough fellow. How long has he been...” He cleared his throat of its sudden thickness. “...living here?” 

“Almost a month and a half now. He’s been such a delight, always helping with the chores and keeping Mr. Holmes in line. I haven’t had a single broken dish in two weeks!” Keeping Holmes in line? No one can control Sherlock Holmes, the man is like a force of nature! “That’s...impressive. Holmes is not a force easily controlled.” He chokes. 

“Which is why I’m so grateful.”

“And where did you find this charming delight?” The words burn like acid. Mrs. Hudson laughs, and he presses the cutter into soft dough with a harsh twist. 

“It was Mr. Holmes who found him.” She paused, her hands stilling over the kettle. “Well...I suppose it was he who found Mr. Holmes.” 

Watson glances over with a furrowed brow. “How so?”

Her face seems to age rapidly, a good ten years in ten seconds. “He was on another case for one of the prestigious clients, you know. Of course he was very tight lipped about the whole affair, but I’m no fool. I knew he was nosing around in something dangerous.” Her fingers tighten around the finespun handle of a teacup. “He mentioned meeting some informant at the shipyard, I’m not certain which one.” 

“He went alone?” He wants to break something, because Sherlock should know better, should always have backup. But Watson knew Sherlock better than that. Watson was supposed to be his backup. 

“Yes, as much as I urged him not to. You may have settled down, Doctor, but Mr. Holmes is still very much dedicated to the law. He is going to do what he wants to do, even if he’s alone when doing it.” She isn’t accusing or insulting, but he hurts. He’s again reminded of his failure, his mistake. 

“And something...happened?” 

Mrs. Hudson slams her hands on the countertop, a furious scowl looming over her brow. “The stubborn fool went and got himself shot! He probably wouldn’t be puttering about upstairs right now if not for Doctor Demone’!” 

He thinks he stumbles, but he can’t be sure. Blood rushes in his ears, and he feels faintly hot. “Shot?” 

“It was terrifying, seeing him like that. There was more blood than I’d seen in a long while.” Her eyes were glossing over. “The bullet pierced one of his major arteries, and if Wiley hadn’t of found him when he did...” She can’t say it, and Watson is grateful. Saying it aloud makes it real. 

He scrambles for a change of topic. “He’s a doctor then?” 

“A surgeon at St. Mary’s, one of the best. He’s taken very good care of Mr. Holmes, had him up and about in no time at all.” 

Wiley is a doctor. A bloody doctor! One of the best. Wonderful, lovely, perfect. And he’s been taking very good care of Holmes, his Holmes, his best friend, his priority, his - Watson grinds his teeth. “That’s wonderful.” 

x

Wiley knocks, lest Sherlock fire some manner of poison dart upon his unauthorized entry. He hears a low muttering through the door, and takes that as an admission. He finds his flatmate sprawled across the tiger skin, legs flung open and arms stretched above his head. He takes a short moment to appreciate the stripe of toned stomach exposed to him.

“Do stop staring, Doctor. I might develop a complex.” Sherlock drawls, his gaze fixed on the ceiling. 

“My apologies. I’ll try not to make a habit of it.” 

He snorts quietly. “I’m not certain as to what you find so interesting on my person.” He murmurs, his eyes flickering over the ceiling tiles. They pause on a far left tile. “Who was at the door?” He takes great pains to sound indifferent. 

“An old friend of yours.” 

Sherlock scoffs. “I have no such thing.” He sounds offended, as if the notion of friendship is a silly one, laughable, ridiculous. Wiley cocks a dark brow. 

“Oh, then I suppose I should send Doctor Watson on his way?” 

“Watson? Here? Now? At this very moment?” Honeycomb eyes grow sharp and round. Sherlock kept supine on the pelt, but his body tightened and curled like a fresh bow string. Wiley frowned, a teaspoon of jealousy splattering his innards.

“Yes, Sherlock, at this very moment. He’s downstairs with Mrs. Hudson.” He pads across the room, and settles in front of the crackling hearth. Sherlock is a scant step away. Sherlock slackens into the pelt, apathy draping over his face like a sheet. “Perhaps he left something behind.” He knows this not to be the case, but he won’t speak the alternative. 

“Is it so hard to believe this could be a social visit? You two were close, once upon a time.” Wiley speaks it for him. Sherlock flops onto his side, giving his back to his flatmate, sulking. “Watson has concluded his business at Baker Street. He has no reason to return.” 

“It was more than a mere business transaction.” As much as he wishes it to be just so simple. Wiley frowns, his jaw spasming. As far as he’s concerned, John Watson had willingly relinquished his right to be here, at Baker Street, and at the side of Sherlock Holmes. 

“Was it?” Sherlock huffs. 

“It was.”

“I’m inclined to disagree.”

Wiley laughs at the predictable reply. “Color me shocked.”

“Sarcasm is the language of the witless, my good man.” Sherlock twists around to face him, his mood considerably lightened now that he has delivered a proper insult. Wiley flicks him on the nose, a playful punishment of sorts. “I think of it as a natural defense against idiocy. Or obstinacy, in this case.” 

Crisp silence, then a loud sigh. Sherlock spares him a look.

“I will not waste precious seconds arguing something so trivial. I’m on the verge of a major breakthrough, and your presence is - ”

“Deliciously distracting?” 

“Unwelcome.” 

Wiley rears back in mock hurt. “Careful, Sherlock. Words can wound.” 

He spots a rebellious spiral of dark hair standing on end. His hand is moving, and he doesn’t bother to stop it. Wiley entangles his fingers in a thicket of curls [warm, soft, like chinese silk].

“Wiley?” Sherlock looks confused, innocently so. He comes to himself in a moment of unforgiving clarity, and jerks back with a shameful flush. “I’m sorry - ”

The door suddenly squeaks on its hinges, Mrs. Hudson and one John Watson filing into the room. “We’ve brought the afternoon tea.” She smiles too big, oblivious to the heady tension. All Watson can see is the closeness between them [so little distance]. He meets those dark eyes for the first time in two months, and his tiny world is opening up into a grand space. “Holmes.”


End file.
